Week days give me a sense of purpose. Waking up and getting out of bed is the hardest part, but once it’s done on time, I can function fairly well. I like my classes even though I zone out a lot during lectures recently , thinking about things. I like my work too, though it seems more like a hobby now, a paid one. I am a research assistant at the gerontology department at the School of Nursing at my university. Right now we are in the process of analyzing data from the study linking diurnal cortisol (stress hormone) rhythms and agitated behavior in people with dementia in order to improve nursing care. I am a quick learner of technology; thus much of the work with statistical software is done by me. I like being needed and respected for my abilities by coworkers.

Also tomorrow is the meeting of Red Cross club on our campus and though I’m a regular member and initiator of a fundraiser to help aid humanitarian criris in Gaza, I really don’t feel like going. Wednesday I have a midterms for my Biostatistics class, and I haven’t even started studying.

That is my day – school and work and more school. Also, I continue to read a very interesting book, called “Born on a Blue Day”, biography of Daniel Tammet, a high-functioning autistic savant. It is just astounding how a person could have such an amazing and different perception of the world.  I understand how he feels though, being the weird one and not fitting in because of it.

So I write all this so calmly, like nothing happened yesterday, like I never cried in the shower, banging my head against the tile, wanting to disappear so badly. No drama of suicide, just suddenly dissolving into thin air. Like a fairy tale. When I was little I always wanted to be invisible. I still do.

I don’t know how to feel. I know I’m slipping down, down deeper and deeper.  Sometimes I would sit and imagine that I’m in a bubble, like this body is just a shell and I am somewhere else looking at the world through the camera lens of my eyes. I would find it hard to come back to the reality, to feeling “present”. I would look out of the window and see the contours of the trees in twilight, my breath taken by the beauty of this world. It is so perfect with its everyday wonders, filled with both joy and pain. Then I would wonder about the significance of my existence in the scheme of things and come to conclusion that trees will bloom and shed leaves no matter if I live or die. Children will laugh or cry, people will die or be born… happiness and suffering create exquisite patterns of life. The world will continue to be perfect in its transient beauty. I’m just a little piece of the larger puzzle. In the end, maybe it’s the plan, my little goal on earth to suffer and die prematurely from my own hands. It wouldn’t matter, life would still be beautiful.

I called the student psychological services today and asked if I could go back to therapy.

PS. In reply to comments: My mother tries to convince me that I can do a lot in this world because I’m bright and determined. In fact by virtue of being as such, living in America, getting high education at a prestigious university, having this path ahead of me — I ought to walk it. The world gave me so many advantages — I’m not sick or dumb or poor — that I have to make the best of it. I disagree. My life is my choice.